What. The. Fuck.
My head is throbbing like it's been smashed with an anvil, and my memory is like the far away chalk board and I'm the nearsighted kid sitting in the back of the room without her glasses.
First, my mind goes to the worst. Was I drugged?
Then I see the bottle of tequila upturned and empty on the floor.
I take inventory. This is not my floor. Or my tequila. I am on a couch that is not mine either. I am still clothed in the jeans and off the shoulder sweater that I put on last night, only my boots are carelessly tossed aside by an unfamiliar door. There are 2 heavy arms secured across my stomach, holding me tight to a warm body.
I am tangled up in Patrick Verona.